


An Interesting Subject

by darcystaserrocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 18:35:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darcystaserrocks/pseuds/darcystaserrocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mycroft Holmes hears about the new police officer his brother has gotten involved with, it is with an air of boredom. Yet another detective using Sherlock's gift and being insulted by his manners (or lack thereof). But at the usual meeting, Mycroft discovers that there's something about Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade that is different to the rest. He's quite the interesting subject.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'll Be Watching

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is kind of a quick introduction to set the scene. The rest of the chapters will hopefully be up pretty soon. (Also sorry its kind of short).

There have been many police officers over the years. There have been good, righteous men, kind-hearted but determined women, vicious, barely legitimate monsters… Mycroft Holmes had seen them all. And he had seen them all crumble under the pressure of his demanding gaze. Because Mycroft wasn’t the type of person to let his little brother, as bothersome as he was, spend any more time than was absolutely necessary with people who wouldn’t help him. He had a mind as great as Mycroft’s own, but his gift was different, and it left him… isolated to say the least. Isolation throughout his life and a propensity for boredom made him volatile, it turned him to drugs, it caused him pain, and Mycroft cared. No matter what his little brother might think. He cared.

  
So when he was told about the Detective Inspector Sherlock had been assisting, he expected just another perfectly reasonable but sadly fatally unsuitable policeman with a cheap suit. But he organised the meeting anyway, determined to keep an eye out for family, no matter how repetitive the consequences. He organised for two of his men to visit this… Lestrade’s office and inform him that there was a car waiting to take him to Whitehall. The car would never get that far, of course, Mycroft liked to flaunt his power when first meeting somebody with whom Sherlock was spending time- it gave off a good impression. No, there was a warehouse in an abandoned industrial estate near Battersea that he liked to use. It was gloomy and damp and large. It gave off a rather dramatic air and the atmosphere combined with confusion of his chosen victim tended to yield favourable results.

  
He took his usual position in the centre, casually watching as the car drew up. He had to concentrate on not smirking as the door opened, this wasn’t the usual sort of game. This was about Sherlock. But then a head appeared, closely followed by the rest of DI Gregory Lestrade. As much information as Mycroft had gathered, he hadn’t bothered to look at a photograph of the man, and he tried not to let the Inspector’s good looks throw him off. But it would be slightly more difficult than he’d hoped.  
“Detective Inspector...” He greeted with a tiny smile, one that barely reached his eyes and, if all went to plan, would prove to the stranger before him that he wasn’t one to skip the pleasantries, regardless of the situation. “It’s a pleasure to meet such an impressive officer.” He continued.  
Greg, however, was less than impressed. He’d been kidnapped, in his mind, and dragged out to some damp sodding warehouse in the middle of nowhere while he was on his lunch break. Only to be greeted with some smug-looking bastard in a Saville Row suit. But the word “Whitehall” had been used, and that was enough to make anyone slightly nervous, especially a DI who had broken several laws by bringing an unlicensed consultant in on a few important cases. He cleared his throat, fighting the urge to glower at the dark haired man before him.  
“What’s going on?” He asked, in his best police-officer-voice. They taught you that at Hendon, how to put the fear of God into people with only a few syllables, “Who’re you?” He asked, keeping the authority in his tone. But Mycroft merely chuckled at the attempt.  
“Please, Gregory, there’s no need to be so suspicious,” He said lip curling, “This-” he indicated the warehouse that surrounded them with his umbrella, “-is all strictly legitimate.”  
Greg couldn’t help but wonder if he wouldn’t have felt better if he’d been mugged, or assaulted, or even got bollocked on the phone by the Chief Inspector. Anything had to be better than being kidnapped by some nameless and stupidly dramatic spook.  
“Legitimate isn’t an abandoned warehouse, Mr…?” He fished for a name again, but the man before him wasn’t about to let the conversation move onto him, not yet.  
“You’ve had a promising career already, haven’t you?” Mycroft commented, flicking open a little black notebook. “Impressive arrest record as a PC, charmingly high score on your detective’s exam-” he paused, turning the page, “-Ah, but only on your second attempt, I see.” He raised his eyes to the police officer’s, “That’s slightly disappointing…”He murmured, almost as though he were talking to himself. After that he was silent, as though thinking about what he had just read, so Greg took the opportunity.  
“I’ll ask you one more time, who are you?” This seemed to bring an end to whatever thought Mycroft had floated into, because he seemed to snap back to reality.  
“Of course, where are my manners? My name is Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes.” Realisation washed over the Detective Inspector and he rolled his eyes.  
“A Holmes, of course you are.” He muttered, bitterly.  
“Yes, of course I am, and I’m here to warn you about my little-“  
“Don’t bother. He’s arrogant and cruel, but he gets the job done. And that’s what’s important.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment, unused to being cut off like that. He stared at Lestrade for a while, a little more curious now.  
“I may not be a Chief Constable, Detective, but I am still your superior. More so, actually. You will show me the respect I deserve.” It wasn’t exactly a threat, but Greg could hear the authority in his voice, and he found himself nodding.  
“Yes, sir.” He said, quietly.  
“Good. Now, I reserve the right to tell you what needs to be done to help Sherlock. If you fail to do as I say you can kiss your warrant card goodbye, and I mean permanently.” Greg felt his cheeks flush a little. He’d lost his warrant card twice in the last month, and normally he was so careful… Mycroft, of course, had his suspicions that the fault lay in Sherlock’s nimble fingers, but he wasn’t about to tell Lestrade that.  
Greg nodded and Mycroft smiled.  
“Good. Now I won’t keep you any longer. But remember, Gregory, I’ll be watching.” With that he should have turned and walked away, ended the meeting with a show of dominance. But, unlike every other meeting he’d ever had in here, he remained still. There was something… something different that he couldn’t explain, and even as Greg was led back to the car to be returned to Scotland Yard, Mycroft found himself unable to look away from him. He vowed to learn more about this DI, he had to, after all, his brother’s sanity was at risk. That was all he was concerned about, surely? But there was a major part of him that hoped this wouldn’t be the last he saw of Gregory Lestrade.


	2. Just Another Policeman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft calls Greg in for another meeting a few weeks after the events at the warehouse, it was supposed to be a simple chat, but both men feel something heavy in the air between them. But it couldn't possibly be anything of note... could it?

Greg was still angry when he got back to his office, closing the door with a loud slam that let anyone in the vicinity know he wasn't to be disturbed. The first thing he did, was to open google, determined to find out who this man was. But just as he was about to start typng, he stopped. Was there any point? If he was as high up as he certainly seemed to be there would be nothing of use on the internet. Besides, all he had to do was ask Sherlock about-His train of thought was interrupted as the phone on his desk rang, after a moment's pause, he picked it up.  
"Detective Inspector, I have just been informed you had a meeting with Holmes today," the booming voice of his Chief Constable greeted him before he'd even had the chance to speak, "What did you do? He doesn't just appear out of nowhere- You know this means that we've probably got Whitehall watching your bloody department, I dont care what mess you've made, clean it up!" And with that he hung up. Greg stared at the receiver in his hand in disbelief, before hanging up himself and sighing. So Mycroft Holmes was legitimate, and terrifyingly so if he'd had that effect.  Suddenly he felt a lot more nervous, although he hadn't seemed to be that scary.

 

Greg decided the best course of action was to continue with his job as he would normally, and hope that Mycroft Holmes would forget about him. But he had no such luck. Two weeks after their first encounter, Greg recieved a phone call.  
"Detective Inspector," The now-familiar voice greeted, politely, just like last time. Greg felt a tightness in his chest as nerves set in. But why was he nervous? He couldn't figure it out, he hadn't done anything wrong, his work load had meant he'd barely had any time to make a mistake.  
"Oh, yes, Mr Holmes, hello." He said, then cursed himself for stammering like a fool. In fact, Mycroft chuckled on the other end of the line.  
"Yes, I take it someone had informed you as to my legitimacy. You're being much more polite than at out last meeting."  
"Ah... yeah, well I'm sorry about that-"  
"It's quite alright. But I wanted to talk to you...I'm sending a car, it will take you to my office." Greg tried to speak, but he was met with a dialling tone.

  
“Bloody Whitehall typed with their bloody dramatics,” He muttered, angrily, as he pulled on his jacket. Little did he know that Mycroft could hear every word he was saying, “It’s not as if he’s the first bloody spook to figure out a waistcoat suits him.” He grumbled, pausing to check his hair. He stopped, staring at his reflection in the window, he was shocked, not only because he was bothered about seeing Mycroft again, but because he had actually paused to make sure he looked ok, this was not like him at all.  He stood there, dumfounded, for a little while, until he forced himself to man up, and stalked out of his office and down the stairs to where there was a car waiting- not the same one he’d been in before, but it might have well have been. Everything about it was exactly the same, apart from the colour of the carpet. He sat there awkwardly, staring at the back of the driver’s head and avoiding looking at the woman beside him.

Once they got to Whitehall, the woman, who had been completely silent up until that moment, told Greg to follow her, and led him through a maze of corridors until they were standing outside an ominous mahogany door.   
“He’s waiting for you,” She told him, nodding her head towards the door. “Knock, wait three seconds, and then go in.” With that, the woman turned on her heel and disappeared down the corridor to, Greg presumed, get on with whatever vital work she had that wasn’t ferrying police officers from Scotland Yard to the heart of the British Government. He turned back to the door, hoping that he hadn’t done something stupid, knocked, waited to the count of three, then opened the door.

The office wasn’t quite what he was used to, his own workspace was pretty bare, functional, but hardly with the air of class that hung in this room. There was even a faint smell of red wine and cigars floating in the air, although that could have just been Greg’s imagination. Mycroft looked up from a file he was reading and flipped it shut with the fluid movement of one long finger. “Ah, Mr Lestrade, please sit down,” He said, standing and indicating the chair in front of his desk. Greg stepped inside, and took a seat, refusing to appear nervous in this man’s presence. “I’m honoured that you could take time out of your busy schedule to come and see me.” Mycroft continued, sitting down again.   
“Well, its not like I had much of a choice, is it, Mr Holmes?” Greg said, the sarcasm in his voice barely disguised. Mycroft fell silent, and for a few seconds Greg wondered if he’d crossed some sort of line. “Yes…” Mycroft said, slowly, the smile on his face one that threw Greg off, was it sarcastic? Amused? He couldn’t tell. “Of course, us “Whitehall types” do like to be dramatic.” He continued, and this time Greg could tell the smirk was aimed at him, he stared down at his hands, which were folded in his lap, suddenly very aware of everything he’d ever said.   
  
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Gregory- oh, I can call you Gregory, can’t I?”  
“Um, yeah. Or Greg. I don’t really-“  
“Splendid.” Mycroft cut him off and stood up, walking around to lean on the desk, arms folded and observe Greg, “You seem to be just like all the others my brother had bothered. But you don’t seem to mind the way he treats you, you only consult him when it’s necessary and, if I’m not mistaken, you’ve encouraged him to reduce his intake of narcotics. If I was anyone else, I would thank you for all you’ve done, but instead I find myself wondering what your motivations are.”  
There was a long paused, in which the two men just stared at each other in silence, both waiting for the other to speak. Finally, Greg realised the question hadn’t been rhetorical, and spoke.   
“I just want to solve crime, Mr Holmes. Sherlock is difficult and… blunt, but he solves crimes.”  
“But there must be something,”  
“He’s vastly intelligent. To have him on our side of the law is a victory and a blessing. That’s all.”  
  
They fell into silence again,  eyes boring into each other as though the answers they both sought were lurking somewhere in the other’s face.   
“You’re a strange one, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft commented, although he wasn’t sure how true that was. Surely Lestrade was just doing what he should? There was nothing strange about a man doing his job. But there was something strange about the way he made Mycroft feel.   
“As are you, sir.” Greg replied, and, as resentful as he should be about the sudden interest he’d attracted, he didn’t really mind. He told himself it was because this man was merely looking out for his brother, that the whole “scary government agent” feel was merely to make sure that Greg didn’t do anything to abuse Sherlock’s gift. Silence settled over them again, and it was awkward, but at the same time, both men felt strangely comfortable, as though it were ok to feel awkward in the other’s presence.

Time passed, how much time wasn’t exactly clear to either man, but it felt like they’d been sitting in silence for hours.   
“I should really get back to work…” Greg said, eventually, his voice sounding hollow and weak after the prolonged muteness. “Unless there was something else you wanted to say…?” To anyone else it would sound like a man politely checking his superior was through with him, but Mycroft could see the glint of hope in Greg’s dark eyes, like he was just looking for an excuse to stay.   
“No.” Mycroft said, returning to his seat, “You can go, if you wish.” He opened the file again and stared down at it, not taking any of the words or numbers in, instead he pretended to read it until he heard the door close behind the other man.   
“What’s wrong with you?” He muttered to himself, pouring a whiskey from the decanter under his desk. “He’s just another policeman. A married one at that.” Although he couldn’t help but remember the word that had been added to Lestrade’s file recently… Separated. Little did he know that Greg was sitting in the car on the way back to work frantically trying to figure out why he was upset at being dismissed, it didn’t make any sense… did it?

That night, with his jacket discarded and his third bottle of beer in his hand, Greg decided to call his wife. But after she'd shouted at him for calling when the children were in bed, after she'd flaunted her new boyfriend's job (he was only a software engineer, although he did make more money than him) and complained about his lack of understanding, Greg lost all motivation he'd had for trying to have a decent conversation. He hung up and finished his beer,  before crawling into bed, tired, confused and annoyed. 


End file.
